Renia's Diary

by Renia Spiegel

  JULY 21, 1941

  Already a month has passed since our memorable kiss. Zygu reminded me of this. He came by with Maciek. Maciek kissed my head by way of greeting, Zygu went red. Well, but when Maciek kissed my face, Z was furious, and rightly so. He tried to make up for it all, and at the same time hide his confusion, so he began hugging me, caressing me so warmly, that I felt extremely moved and … almost dazed. “How smooth her face is,” he said—he remembered that once, at the house of that darling little Irusia he smelled my scent, i.e., perfume, Maciek recalled this. He held my hand tightly. When we spoke about that, er … book, and Maciek was talking about the accident that Z wanted to tell me about on Friday, Z said, “Maciek, stop, this is a ‘flower of thought,’ she can’t listen to this,” and took as many pains about it as … he only can.

  Many more, many things I am unable to write about because I do not know how, I have to immortalize in my mind, preserve in my heart, so that I can draw on them in moments of sadness. I must surely know that Z loves me! And one has to ask God that things happen like “our friend” said they would: after the war, after school, with Zygu, my wonderful husband—it really took my breath away—he wrote in my diary like so: “1) Happiness is the contentment man feels when he can stop wanting even for a moment, and cherish what he has. 2) The sight of something beautiful in art or nature immediately awakens the memory of a beloved woman.” How wonderful and true! I experience it in every moment, even in everyday life, in the fairy-tale life from books, and in the life of thought, i.e., in the land of dreams. Only memories and dreams live there. I love with all my heart. I’m choking on love like—he does … yes, for he also … We both want it, we make meaningful faces, and our lips tilt slightly of their own accord, M even made a remark. Buluś, come, hear me out, assess. I didn’t make a date, I don’t know, I’m still waiting … You will help me, Buluś and God!

  JULY 22, 1941, TUESDAY

  I went to the parish. I’m starting to get used to it. Z and I went for a walk. I was looking for a defense against Maciek in him. Irusia Hauser, that Irusia, is making huge progress with Fiunio. I wish her happiness and I’m very pleased. I get very confused there. Z is the loveliest, “Have I ever been angry with you?” But those eyes peer! Bye! Good night, I’m off to daydream, although I’m tired. Until the next time I meet Z, when? I’ll see the one from my dreams. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  JULY 28, 1941, FRIDAY*

  I have already seen Zygu and had a sulk, and I missed him, “and so it goes.” And in the meantime I live with no news of Mom. Apparently it’s bad there. Poor Mama. Whatever I eat, I think of her, I share every bite with her in my thoughts, like I do every joy and sadness. Please, God, may it really happen, that I might share everything with her. Mama, I’m writing this to you! I’m writing as if the words scribbled here had some magical power and could summon you. May they sound out so that they can be heard by the Great Lord God in heaven and you, dearest, all the way there.

  Yesterday I saw Jews being beaten. Some monstrous Ukrainian in a German uniform hit every one he met. He hit and kicked them, and we were helpless, so weak, so incapable.… We had to take it all in silence. And at that moment my only consolation was the thought of revenge, oh yes, revenge is sweet, but it should not be bloody. And I want to live until the moment when I can hold my head up high, when I’m an equal, free person in a free, democratic country! I want to be happy then with Zygu, with everyone who had gone through this hell of dishonor, slaughter and humiliation. I want to be happy, I want my dreams to come true, and you will help me with this, God, because I believe in You, because You have never let me down!

  Every morning whole troops of wounded Germans walk past. And … I’m sorry for them. I’m sorry for those young, tired boys, far away from their homeland, mother, wife, perhaps children. Someone says heartfelt prayers for them too, and someone weeps for them during sleepless nights. Such is the irony of fate …

  I curse the hundreds, thousands, millions

  when new recruits go to war

  may they all meet their bullets

  may neither of them come back to what they knew before.

  May grenades’ horrible hail

  bring them all down one by one

  may the whole cursed army fail

  For the blood of fathers, brothers, sons!

  Slowly he walks, harried and weak

  a soldier, look, how young

  wounded in hand, or in arm, hard to speak

  his uniform hangs from his arm.

  He walks, he limps and rests by the wall

  He’s sweating, he won’t walk too far

  His gaze is a helpless begging call

  His eyes, oh how sad they are!

  As if in his blackest depths

  a complaint now burned with alarm

  look, see how young I am

  and how they did me harm.

  I learned all life the hard way

  I knew next to nothing before

  my mother, my father, my house went away

  I had to fight—but who for?

  Now on my way back … and again

  my eyes are flashing with grief

  I cry and my heart’s full of sorrow

  I’m weak and I can’t find relief.

  This is the fate, it’s the life

  and who can explain to me why

  I curse the thousands and millions

  And for the one wounded, I cry?

  AUGUST 6, 1941

  Moods and thoughts, and words, all change … They change, flicker from wave to wave. I’m pleased, because my heart tells me Mom will come. There will be a message from her next week.

  I’m sad when I hear that they are to send us, that there’s to be a ghetto, that it’s so bad. And apart from this my personal trifles make me lose the last dregs of spirit.

  Lida is making disgusting passes at Zygu in my presence. He behaves very stupidly. He’s awfully selfish, why doesn’t he think about me? Why? But I am already making solemn promises to myself that without an invitation or an arranged meeting I will not go to the parish. With Lida it’s not making a pass, it’s something natural, and how unnatural! Irka did a vile thing. I’m angry with Zygu, but all my worries are consoled with one thought—Mom! You will help me, Buluś and God. Mama, Mama, will come??? When … Mom. When … Zygu.

  AUGUST 11, 1941, SUNDAY*

  I’m working. I have reasons to be pleased. I’m expecting Mom any day now. Each strike of the clock may bring her to me. I’m seeing Zygu, he’s sweet, good, darling. He proposed that we get a photograph taken together, the two of us. I have reasons to be pleased, and yet I yearn for “that night” …

  Such a night happens once in a lifetime

  so in memories it can linger on

  so it can be dreamed about day- and nighttime

  and remembered as years are long gone

  Such a night—it’s in dreams it begins

  In a girl’s wishes

  Such a night turns a memory, it seems

  Like a smile, it perishes

  Yes, I remember the charms of the moon

  and holding the head I so missed

  and a bird’s midnight tune

  and how you kissed

  I can’t write any more, but every night I miss that night so, I miss it, I miss those lips … ah, that night lives in me. Those nights exist to awaken yearning, and then an unquenched thirst. Tomorrow? You will help me, Buluś and God

  AUGUST 12, 1941, MONDAY*

  It’s a shame I talked about that dog. I feel better today than I have felt for days. Yes today. Zyguś was perhaps the loveliest! He gave me a photograph of himself and wrote: “To darling sweet lips.” Zygmunt said, “I see my sweet lips, so I’m thinking of lips,” and generally he says that “this” is an understood and certain thing, and “this” is precisely our love.

  We walked far, avid for “only sensual delights,” Z said that, and we sat down, I did not want to sit in his lap, I don’t know
why, but I can’t. I sat next to him, with leaves stuck to my lips all over. Why? I imagine it’s exactly because I was choking with … Z embraced me like he did then, and like then the scent dazed me. It was quiet again, the road empty and the field, and the pond, and when he finished unsticking all the little leaves from my lips and when … two Germans came.

  I can’t describe everything, so I’ll mention the “alley of love,” i.e., Z and I’m off to daydream, live through everything all over again.

  Z invited me, he said he had a nice little room, but what of it? And you know what I wrote him, the dearest darling? Z was awfully pleased, but that’s not enough, with a whole slew of words I would not be able to say how close he is to me (and to reciprocate). Zygu, our every meeting is a priceless gift to me. Can one repay God for the sun and the sky, and life, can we speak of it? We are to have regular meetings on Thursdays. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  AUGUST 15, 1941, FRIDAY

  Z said that I absolutely should give you to Mom to read, I should not keep secrets from her. Mama! Come, and I’ll open this diary to you, and my heart at the same time!

  I’m ill. I have a fever and a sore throat. Yesterday I wanted to tell you that this makes me inordinately happy. Zygu came to visit, sat by me, and was, well—as always. He wanted to examine me. I was happy, but I always talk myself down. Yes, I told Norka and Irka about it, and talked myself into sadness.

  Z came today too, he was sweet, but whenever he comes to me, the whole “esteemed company” gathers, and I’m upset, Zygu is too. Apart from them came Rena F., Lunka and Lidka, but more on that later. I will have a photograph, but I had to give him the one from the graduation anyway, he asked me.

  Apart from my illness I don’t really have anything on my conscience—but still, how many worries weigh down my heart. Mama, when will you come? I haven’t heard anything about that, or from Lila …

  You know, Z held you in his hands today, he wanted to read, I got very nervous, and in the end he asked, “Well, but when I become a doctor, will you let me read?” Zygu, do I know what will happen before you become one? But may God make it happen. That you are a doctor and that I can give it to you. I miss … You will help me, Buluś and God.

  AUGUST 16, 1941

  It’s a normal, gray, wartime day. It’s like those 63 days that have already passed, and like the days that are to come. It’s a neurotic day, drizzly, cold, unfriendly … What do I know? I reply, “I don’t know” in advance to all the questions I desperately want to ask. Why is Mom not writing, why is there no sign from her? What has happened to her? Why do we live in fear of searches and arrests? Why can’t we go for a walk, because “children” throw stones? And why, why, why? I’m overcome by some infectious fear, no, I feel no foreboding, but still—I am so afraid, so very afraid. Miraculous God, keep and save my one and only Mom.

  Maybe one day the sun will shine again …

  maybe one day we’ll walk, me and you

  through a world that has awoken

  from a long winter’s dream

  to have our students’ rendezvous

  as the memory holds what’s dear

  maybe one day yet, one day

  we will sit there on the bench

  forget and remember what we may

  maybe once more we’ll get “lost”

  in an alley lined with pines

  with a scary premonition

  it may well have been “on our minds”

  maybe a green blade of grass

  when we face the final day

  and maybe for real this time

  a flash of sun—a golden ray?

  You will help me, Buluś and God.

  9 IN THE EVENING!

  Something’s bursting within me, choking me! One wants more, endlessly more. Oh, how good it is to be kissing lovely red lips, how good to be caressed “like that,” talk about the taste of kisses, about love. About obstacles to our love etc. All that hurt has already been erased, a kiss wiped away the reason why … why I cried on 1 May. Oh, how good is it to kiss … kiss … kiss. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  AUGUST 25, 1941, MONDAY15

  On Friday there was the 1st letter from Mama, then a 2nd, then 3rd, and then dread, a horrible fear for her life and ours, and everyone’s. My heart’s been so heavy since this morning and now and always I’m calling to God and placing our fates in His hands. He’s the only one who’s never disappointed me; He will hear my voice. I want Him to protect Mom and return her to me from far away. God, protect her and all of us from everything that is evil and protect my Zygu from the evil that can happen to him. I’m suffering today, but I thank You that in those horrible days of the turmoil of war You have sent me a bright ray of light. I’m writing down what I feel, and I feel gratitude, deep, sincere, immortal.

  Zygu talked to me like nobody else apart from my mother … He said he felt sorry for me and that I deserve happiness in the future for the things I am suffering now, and know, Zygu, that it is for always! He said that the hearth and home is only needful in childhood, but I know he wanted to console me. Good, darling Zygu! I am not worthy of you even in part. You wanted to substitute my mother with those caresses and console me, that’s what you said. Zyguś, my Mama will give me those maternal caresses, and these ones, they console me very much. You will help me, Buluś and God. God protect Mama and us all. God and my entreaties will help you, Mama.

  AUGUST 27, 1941

  War! War! No end in sight. I would like to write something, but I can’t. I’m dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. All that’s left are dreams, hope, and what … what’s left to you, Zyguś, yes, and me too. Oh, to see my mother just for a moment. You will help me, Buluś and God.

  AUGUST 28, 1941, THURSDAY

  It’s no use moaning, “Don’t cry, don’t cry, it won’t do.” It’s what must be, it’s necessary for us to walk with our heads lowered now, to run along streets, to shiver. For the meanest streetwalker to provoke and insult me in Zygu’s presence and he can’t help me, or I him. Trifles, really, but it is very, very hard. I’ve felt a little confused since Zygu’s lecture about Nietzsche, Werne* and their ideology, about how he’s for young marriages, “childless for now.” You know, my attitude to those “serious” matters is awfully silly and childish. For example I completely do not understand that Rena who works with Zygu and says that I have “a unique face,” but do you understand me? Well, yes, you know! No, this has nothing to do with her. What is it really that makes me feel indignant, or worried, or bored?

  Rejoice, rejoice

  this is your feast

  oh gutter, cellar, tavern, inn

  the world is yours, we are your toys

  streetwalker with a nasty grin

  today you bully, yell, and curse

  you bring me low and make me worse

  you, flowing here on gutter’s scum

  from what is lowest, rotten, vile

  the only homeland you have got

  is a pile of trash and a lustful smile

  Your day—remember

  you’ll see the day

  when I will spit, not turn away

  you and “your” lover, vermin both,

  will travel back to swamp and sloth

  in which you brood, cavort and sway

  And I will … no!

  Although I hate

  My contempt and disgust are too great

  Your kin, your sins, you cursed one

  Mean that to you no harm is done

  Like snakes and worms that live in filth

  Because they would not be killed—just despised

  You will help me, Buluś and God.

  SEPTEMBER 1, 1941

  A year ago … Oh, a whole year has gone by. I’ve experienced so much good and bad. But perhaps more good. Maybe Mama will come soon after all. Today Z came and I felt some sort of thing when he said, “Well, talk as if we’re married.” With that Hala—a trifle and that thing, you know, with the one from the photograph, also a trifle.
Generally everything is a trifle, apart from my mad love. Oh, God, how I love him, how much. Even though he thinks I’m the opposite of dynamite, still … ha ha ha! I gave him a photograph to whet the appetite. I haven’t seen Maciek in a long time. Despite everything, I like Maciek. Why do I give away that I’m jealous? You will help me, Buluś and God. And you, Mama, come as soon as you can!

  SEPTEMBER 10, 1941, SUNDAY*

  And sometimes it’s like it was today. And today it’s—I don’t know—today it seems to me that everything is stupid, love, and him, and life, and all the daily matters. Everything in reality that is stripped of its romantic ornaments and flourishes is odious. No! Not odious, just genuine, just how it truly is. And on days like today it feels that this can be soothed by music, light, resonant … Yes, on those days all that’s left is music and dreams. But not the dreams related to reality, those that are pink, but still connected to life, no! Detached, fragrant, colorful dreams—like poetry. Ah, I would like to know how to play beautifully. One can conjure the soul’s every state with music—to only know how. Today I feel an aversion toward love, no, not for the first time. It is unfair, I know, but I don’t understand that today, I can’t believe in anything. Today it’s good to listen and think …

  My chiming song, keep sailing so

  Across the Danube’s deep blue flow

  Through waves that glitter like a star

  Carry on, song … far

  So I’m thinking, and thinking, and dreaming, and mocking life’s worries, gossip, jealousy and love, I don’t know …

  Life is some ugly, worthless stuff

  stripped of its charms, it’s bare and rough

  so calculating, hard, and dry

  dirty and daft, though you may try

  it’s lewd and boring and it’s weird

  with stuff you cried at, hurt at, feared

  it’s cruel, noisy, and it’s mocking

  two-faced and empty and so shocking …

  J. Strauss*

  My chiming song, keep sailing so

  across the Danube’s deep blue flow

  through waves that glitter like a star

  Where tears and grief no longer are

  in a land of dreams